The Old Brag of My Heart
by sitabethel
Summary: Bakura returned after the Ceremonial Duel in his old body, but the effects of Kul Elna's destruction left physical as well emotional injuries. Thiefshipping/One-shot


"**I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am."  
~Sylvia Plath, _The Bell Jar._**

**This fic appeared into my head out of no where. I'm supposed to be working on Creepy Hide & Seek . . . oooops, but I couldn't help myself!**

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Marik awoke to the desperate sounds of gasping. His eyes ripped open, and he sat up. The small lamp beside the bed (Marik still hated the dark) sent yellow light sprawling across the carpet and bed, but Marik's half-asleep vision blurred, turning everything into bleary, distorted smears of paint on a ruined canvas. Marik rubbed his eyes to correct his vision.

"Bakura," Marik muttered, turning so he could see Bakura in bed next to him.

The former Egyptian thief sat with his back pressed against the headboard. His mouth hung open and his chest heaved as Bakura fought for breath harder than he'd ever fought the Pharaoh. In his right hand he gripped an inhaler, knuckles white like his former host's skin as he clutched the plastic dispenser.

Marik knelt on the bed in front of Bakura. He wrapped one hand around Bakura's fist and used the other to cradle the back of Bakura's head. Marik pressed his forehead against Bakura's brow. "Come on, breathe."

Bakura didn't respond other than with repeated, broken drags of air in and out of his mouth.

After the Ceremonial Duel Bakura appeared in Kul Elna, brown-skinned and half-starved. One of the tomb keepers that used to guard the Tablet sent word of the event to Ishizu, who told Rishid, who told Marik. He left that day to find Bakura, to see the miracle himself. It was a miracle to Marik. Battle City gave Marik a second chance at life, and Bakura returning gave Marik a second chance to say everything he never could after Battle City.

When he'd walked into the underground chamber and saw him; it didn't matter that his body was different, that it was no longer Ryou's. Marik knew him by the way his white eyebrows quirked up when he saw Marik, by the way his teeth flashed as he smirked, by the way he gestured with his brown hands as he spoke.

_Surprise. I'm back. Mind helping me tell these morons to get the fuck out of my town? This village is a dump._

_It was always a dump, you fool._

_Maybe, but it used to smell like bread and now it smells like sewage. _

Marik walked up to the thief and traced the long, jagged scar on his face without asking permission.

_I see not even the Underworld wanted you._

_Nope._

_Guess I'll have to take you then._

A sad look settled on Bakura's face, the way ash once settled over the ruined huts after his village burned.

_I suppose you'll have to. This isn't home anymore. _

Ishizu screamed when she saw Bakura sitting on the sofa. She demanded he leave, but when Marik explained that he and Bakura stayed together or left together, she conceded. His sister and his lover didn't talk much, although Marik could goad them into a game of Duel Monsters from time to time. They got along best when competing.

Bakura's return was a miracle, but it had a catch. The gods returned him in his original body. Marik suspected as soon as he saw Bakura, because of the scars on his face and body, the dust ground into his clothes, and a birthmark on his foot, but they didn't think of it much those first few nights. Bakura often coughed into his pillow, but there'd been dust storms that week and Marik ignored the behavior . . . until Bakura's first asthma attack. They'd been making love, both begging for air as they neared completion. After they finished, Marik's breaths evened out, but Bakura's never did. He'd rode out the fit and blamed Marik's performance, but later that night he had another one.

They argued for weeks over going to the doctor. Bakura refused, strung excuses together like pearls. Most of the time he was fine, but after Marik woke from a nightmare to discover Bakura the middle of an attack, he'd crashed into Bakura's chest when it was over and pleaded instead of demanded until Bakura relented.

Respiratory inflammation. The doctor wrote a prescription for an inhaler that sometimes helped – sometimes didn't.

_Were you always like this?_

_Since that night, but no one hears you cough when you're alone in the desert. I got used to it._

Fire, smoke, ash, an entire village burned and her people smelted, and a single child forced not only to watch, but to breathe it all in, to cradle it in his chest for the rest of his life.

"_Huh-huh_, I'm – _hah_ – fine."

"I know you're fine," Marik snapped, "but I'm not letting go."

They waited until the pulls of air lengthened and the wheezing faded to a raspy noise deep in Bakura's lungs. They waited together, counting each breath. Marik found himself breathing in time with Bakura, as if he could somehow teach Bakura's broken lungs how to work again simply by demonstrating.

"I hate being weak," Bakura whispered to their headboard once he regained control.

"You're not."

"Sometimes I wonder if this will kill me one night, and then the bastards will have killed everyone in my village after all."

Marik had thought the same, but hearing Bakura verbally speak it, still struggling for breathe in a dark room with only a small lamp to lessen the shadows, caused something to tear inside Marik. His own breath hiccuped as he curled his face and arms into Bakura's lap. The tears felt like flames, fire hot enough to melt ninety-nine villagers and mix their corpses with gold.

"Marik, gods Marik, I didn't mean it." Bakura bent over Marik and buried his face in Marik's golden hair.

"You're not weak. I am." Marik spoke into Bakura's lap, surrounded by his naked thighs but unable to enjoy them at the moment. "I am. I'm weak because I can't bare to lose you again."

"You won't. I swear." Bakura shifted under the covers and pulled Marik up to his chest.

Marik used the sheet to soak up the tears bathing his face. "I worry."

"Don't. It's been seven years and I'm still here."

"I know." Marik tried to turn away, ashamed of his display of emotion.

Bakura grabbed Marik's shoulder and turned him back so that they faced each other. He slipped his fingers around Marik's hand and held Marik's palm against his chest. "Feel my heart?"

The tears were spent, Marik nodded as he watched Bakura's face. Seven years, but neither of them looked much different, yet. Marik imagined wrinkles, and liver spots on Bakura's face and hands. He wondered if they'd need Viagra one day and smiled despite himself at the thought.

His true other half, Bakura mirrored the expression. "What's that look for?"

Marik shrugged. "I was picturing you old and trying to get your limp cock up."

Bakura's smile shifted into a grin. "The grandfathers of my village never had trouble getting their cocks up. Don't worry about that either." He reached out his free hand and caressed Marik's cheek, shifting loose hair away from Marik's face. "My lungs are shit, but my heart's strong. As long as it beats, I'll breath, so don't worry."

"I shouldn't. You're harder to kill than a cockroach."

"It's true. How many times have you thought me gone before? I always come back."

Marik shifted closer, using Bakura's chest as a pillow. Bakura's heart did feel strong as it pounded out a rhythm against Marik's ear. Each beat sounded like a boast, a taunt to the Pharaoh who'd passed on while Bakura still lived.

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*****If anyone reading this is a fan of my abridged stories, go over to supersteffy's site and read "The Dark Room of Nightmare" we wrote that together, and I can humbly and objectively say (without any bias what-so-ever) that it's pretty funny. So go over there and leave stunning reviews - or at the very least some knock-knock jokes.*****


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